La Vie En Rose
by Jesus Christ Superstar
Summary: The final Lestrange trial. Angsty one shot. Read and Review, please.


**Author's Note**_: ... It's angst. It's sad. It may be a bit off, as I'm rereading the forth book, versus the sixth, like any good HP reader should be, so get over it.  
_**Disclaimer**_: I do not own any of the characters mentioned, blah, blah, blah. I do not own the universe, blah, blah, blah. I'm not making money, and don't sue, kthnx._

_Please Read and Review_ :3

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The only sound within the pit was a scrape—as if someone took a thick strap of leather upon sandpaper—and the soft blossom of the flame as it lit up a small circle around the figure that sat in the hard backed chair. A cigarette hung from his mouth—his eyes downcast as he quickly put the match to the crushed tobacco and paper, his hand curving around the outside of the flame as if he were trying to keep it stationary—trying to keep it close to him, so that the gaunt face could feel warmth once again, like it had when he was younger… when everyone had been younger. Instead, the reason for the cupped hand was due to the fact that, right beside him, a creature of such cold, black hearted deceit stood—the frigid air that emitted from its floating, straggles of robes making the small golden teardrop dance upon the stick—its shimmering body shivering as the dementor's presence attempted to pinch it out. But, he achieved what he wished—the flame touched the tip of the cigarette, and he inhaled—his grey eyes, even more cold than they had been in his youth, looking up at the man who stood before the pit, looking down at Rodolphus Lestrange as if the wealthy Frenchman was scum. And in return, the man got a glare. 

He shook the match, the teardrop flame puffing out—a small twist of grey curling up towards the high, vaulted ceiling—disappearing into nothing, disintegrating into the air… He was much calmer than the woman next to him—that was sure. He sat as if he were waiting to be served tea—his robes flaring over the chair like a king's—his head high and his chin level to the floor as his brows arched. The woman beside him, however—she was gripping the armrests of her own chair to which she had been confined with chains—which had only been placed upon her after she attempted to lunge at the Wizengamot leader, at which he had laughed and cracked a joke that almost all the observers laughed at… _Feisty today, Bella? I doubt he would like to sleep with you _now_, especially in the shape you are in._ Her temper had flared once again—and instead of lunging at the leader, she directed her course towards her husband. He had stopped her, gripping her slender wrists, and he had thrown her away from him—he was tired of it. That was obvious. He was sick of the fights… the insults—for the first time in his life, he was tired.

And the man stood—his eyes rose to follow him—"Bellatrix Isolde Black Lestrange, you are hereby accused of the torture and murder of Neville Longbottom, Ronald Weasley, Kinglsey Shacklebolt, Sirius Black, and Minerva McGonagall. You are also accused of performing traitorous acts towards England and the Ministry of Magic, withholding information that would have assisted the fight against the Dark Lord, and escaping from Azkaban Prison." Rodolphus arched his brows, looking sideways, watching his wife squirm against the chains that held her back. That gripped her, twisted around her slender body—her black hair that had once held such a shimmer he had been entranced by it, falling over her shoulders, dull and frayed. He looked back at the red-robed man, who held the parchment upon which the charges had been written. Back to Azkaban, he knew—which wasn't too bad. He couldn't remember most of the time he had been there previously. He doubted he would remember these last years—"You pleaded guilty."

Bellatrix let out a yelp, and Rodolphus closed his eyes—his turn. The man looked down at the Frenchman—setting down one scroll to pick up another, his voice clearing over the silence that hung around each and every person, creating a small circlet of impenetrable glass—not even the shrill squeals that echoed out from his former lover could shake them. All were itching to hear the list of high crimes against Rodolphus Lestrange. The infamous French 'Jack the Ripper', as he had become known. A title that he knew would go with him to the grave, and beyond, when he would burn in hell for the things he had done—the vicious acts of treason, murders, and snide, sadistic acts of lust… "In addition to your actions preceding your escape from Azkaban, you are accused of the torture and murder of Hermoine Granger, Severus Snape, Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin, Rabastan Lestrange, Alastor Moody, Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, and Rufus Scrimgeour. You pleaded 'as guilty as sin'." Rodolphus propped his head up on his hand, flicking the match absent-mindedly at Bellatrix, who jerked as it hit her, almost hissing at him, as she attempted to lash out at his face—the chain around her arm halted her progress an inch from his cheek…

There had been a time where he wouldn't find amusement in her insanity. There had been a time where she hadn't been insane at all—but someone who had been in the same boat as he, twisted and mangled by their family's beliefs… Haunted forever by the idea that they were better than those around them—and he looked to her like a king would upon a princess. She was untouchable by him—and he did love her in his own way… And with the memory, the vaulted ceiling seemed to grow light—chandeliers falling down from the sickening, blood coated chains—which shivered off their grungy coating, glittering golden—the man's voice faded, and he heard the soft flutter of the flute, followed by violins—the stone disappeared, fading into beautiful mosaics of the Lestranges' ballroom—those watching the trial fading into guests, all dressed so beautifully… And Bellatrix?—she stood, in his memory, wearing a dress that would draw temptation to the holiest of men. Dark red swirled around her figure, slender and graceful—her lips forming a pout of red, her dark eyes watching playfully out from behind a mask she held to her face, a small smirk pulling at her angelic features.

"I? Dance with _you_?" Her lips broke into a smile, her mask lowering so she looked at Rodolphus with an eyebrow arch that made his lips curl into a smirk—"You are below _me_. A Frenchman—never shall I allow myself to be spotted with _you_." Yet, she had danced with him that night—rather it had been her own doing, or if it had been her mother's—he wasn't sure… But, she had danced with him—spinning around the floor, his shoes clicking with her heels, as she gripped his hands, and he pulled her closer to him… It was beautiful—that night. 'Twas a simple party—not many people there, but he was sure—after he had held her in his arms, he did not allow her to leave him. Every time a song ended, he would hold her tight, his forehead leaning against hers so he looked directly into the dark, gorgeous eyes, his lips curling into a broad smile, but saying nothing until another song started with a pull of the cello's bow. He twirled her—pulling her back to him, his brows arching, and he let loose her hand… but, she twirled back to him…

Red dress flaring out around her legs like a blooming rose—the dress gripping her slender torso with ease—and as she came back to him, he put his arms around her waist, moving her down in a low dip so that the back of her bun grazed the floor—"We are engaged," he said, voice a low whisper to the woman who wrapped one arm around his neck with ease as they held the dip. Her delicate fingers played with his suit's collar—fingers running along the soft velvet, finding their way to his dark hair, where she played with one of his locks. Her eyes closed, and her head tilted back more, a vivacious laugh parting the red painted lips on her olive-toned face. Her brows arched haughtily, and he pulled her back up against him… A tango.

"I shall never marry!" She opened her eyes, looking directly up into his—"I wish to remain free—to dance with whom I wish. And if I marry you…" She trailed off, the shadow of a laugh hidden well behind her smiling face, buried deep within her dark eyes… Yet he could see it—there were few who could read Bellatrix Black. He had been one—and, he knew, deep down… she had to love him…

"What are you staring at? Despicable Frenchman—nasty man—if it weren't for you"—the memory fell around him—and he blinked, the twisted face glaring at him from behind curtains of black hair, making his eyes close and he leaned back in his chair—looking back up at those who were to pass judgment on them. They were discussing amongst themselves—chattering and gesturing, talking and hissing, casting glares down at the both of them—the Lestranges… 'The Strange Ones', as they had been nicknamed during their first stay in Azkaban—when his brother was just one cell over, alive and well, always lounging out on his bed, whistling the soft melody of _La Vie En Rose_... The soft, mournful, haunting tune that always kept him awake—always kept him remembering what good natured things he could when the dementors had gone for the night… _When you press me to your heart, I am in a world apart—a world where roses bloom…_ It had been his favorite song, Rabastan—and always, without fail, when Rodolphus would drop by the French manor, his younger brother would ask him to play it out on the piano, and he would not hesitate.

Once again, the pit dissolved into another scene as Rodolphus closed his eyes—large arches of white marble curved the large living room into the ocean—sand occasionally blowing across the marble floor, creating a soft crunch underneath any precious shoe, as if one were walking on glass. While, in the background, the crash of the ocean made everything seem _natural_. Friendly—the Lestrange mansion was beautiful—the flares of while silk curtains caught in a wide dance with the soft, warm breeze that came off the water, as Rabastan leaned against the grand piano, singing out the words with the voice that he had been gifted with, while Rodolphus played the keys on the piano like one would caress a soft kitten. And together, they created a new layer to the Lestrange family—one full of soft-hearted compassion, a fallen hero story, one whose pages were full of tears, of lost causes… of betrayal. For, as Rodolphus remembered, he watched as the years flashed by, the piano falling into disrepair, the curtains rotting from years being untended for… the figures of himself and Rabastan at the piano being replaced by what he saw when they had gotten out of Azkaban. Bellatrix lying out on the top of the old piano, Rabastan laying overtop of her…

He had jerked his brother off of his wife by the neck of the man's robes—and he remembered Bellatrix crying in the background that it was just kissing… that it was nothing more, and would be nothing more. He could hear Rabastan's mumbling as he looked down at his brother—and he twirled his wand, before pointing it down at his younger brother. And as he yelled out the two words that had become something that he did not even think of anymore—a second phrase, like 'good morning', or 'good night', Rabastan had started to whistle the one song that had kept Rodolphus' sanity throughout his stay at Azkaban… And then, it stopped. Rabastan fell back against the old, cracked marble floor, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, tears sliding out of the corners of his eyes… dropping to the floor, where they pooled and reflected the moon that glittered innocently above them…

"Bellatrix Isolde Black Lestrange, the council has come to a decision," Rodolphus was jerked from memories once again, looking up at the grey-haired man, who was looking directly down at the woman who had suddenly gone still in the chair beside him. She was looking up at the grey haired leader with eyes wide—her mouth slack—a glimmer of fear… she didn't want to go back. Who would?—"It seems Azkaban has done what it was created for, for you. Instead of returning you to your cell, we pass upon you the next step up. We decree to all witnesses, Bellatrix Isolde Black Lestrange is to be administered the _kiss_."

The next thing to echo throughout the pit was not from anyone Rodolphus could see—he was the one crying out, a never ending repetition of 'no', that bounced off of the ceiling so hard, spindles of dust curled their way down upon the two Lestranges. And it was then that he knew—he did not just _love_ her in his 'own way'… he was still in love with her. She still had him around her finger, entwined, curved between the once beautifully delicate fingers that had seen more death than happiness. Her insanity, he was not amused by—he was attempting to hide it from his realization… He was still in love with her. And for once, he felt the weight of guilt upon his shoulders. He was pushed down by the note that, those he killed—those he murdered and tortured—they had people out there that they loved as much as he felt for Bellatrix… So many had been put in his shoes… where they saw their lover being destroyed, yet, they could do nothing. And as soon as the man had decreed it, as soon as Rodolphus had screamed, it had been done. The dementor bent over her, hiding the process with its rotting robes, and when it stood straight, Bellatrix was no more.

Though it was not that, which silenced Rodolphus. An empty shell she was, yet she could still repeat what she had been last praying for. And her mouth moved in the same word over, and over—a whisper so light he could not hear it. He closed his eyes—straining his ears, listening through the gasps of horror, and yelps emitted by the crowd… The next thing he knew, he was screaming at her—yelling at her, crying… Eyebrows pulled together in hatred, his heart breaking within his chest. He didn't even know he was being hauled away, restrained by Aurors—his eyes locked on the figure of Bellatrix who hunched over her chair, her mouth continuing to move in that same word… He did not know he had been sentenced to return to Azkaban—he did not fathom anything… He could only hear the waltz from their first dance their shared in his ears, he could only feel the piano keys beneath his fingers as he shouted, he could only see her beautiful face laughing at him… yet, he screamed—and he fought, the last words ringing out in the hall, long after the door had been slammed separating husband and wife, "—WHY NOT WISH FOR ME? WHY SIRIUS!"


End file.
